


Just Kidding

by Rathaway



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also Isaac, Brotp: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski, Derek is mentioned, Gen, Plus Erica, Several Original Characters - Freeform, So is Boyd, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rathaway/pseuds/Rathaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a joke, something for him and Scott to laugh about later. Instead it turns into the worst April Fool's Day that Stiles and Allison have ever experienced in their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Kidding

**Author's Note:**

> I started this on April Fool's Day, and then proceeded to get so distracted with school that I forgot all about it. It was supposed to be quick, a little morbid, but nothing extensive. Instead, it turned into this monster.
> 
> Be warned: this fic is unbeta'd. Also, my writing doesn't follow any traditional structure.

It starts out as a joke; something between just Scott and him, like every year. They always go above and beyond to mess with each other, and with everything that’s been going on this year with the Alpha pack, they both needed a little something to laugh about. The problem is that Stiles _forgets_. Derek has him so wrapped up in battle plans for the last few days of March that, when the first of April finally arrives, he is in bed until 1 in the afternoon (and thank God for Spring Break). So when his best friend wakes him up with a frantic phone call, he has absolutely no idea what’s going on, and he is genuinely upset when Scott tells him that he needs to get to the hospital ASAP, because his dad was shot in the line of duty.

His jeep is back in the shop—courtesy of Aidan and Ethan—so he asks Scott for a ride, but Melissa took the car to the hospital this morning. He tries Lydia next, but she doesn’t answer her phone, and there’s no way he’s calling Derek or the leatherettes. Allison is understanding, and possibly as worried as he is. She makes it to his house in 10 minutes, even though the drive usually takes 15, and Stiles has never appreciated her more than he does in the moment that he climbs into the passenger seat of her SUV.

They are half way to the hospital when he thinks to check his messages. He’s got a voicemail, no texts, and he finally catches sight of the date when he’s thumbing his screen from side-to-side. “Shit,” he grumbles, and speed-dials his dad. He says, “Pop!” when Sam answers with a mumbled greeting. It’s around lunch, so the older man is munching on either the salad that Stiles had packed for him, or the burger he’d smuggled into the office from Jo’s diner.

“Kid,” his dad huffs, “this better not be some kinda joke. It’s been a bad day, and I’m not really in the mood.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nothing like that, dad. Scott just played a mean trick on me, and I just wanted to call and check on you,” he admits, glancing at Allison, who is rolling her eyes at this point.

Sam sighs over the phone, probably shakes his head. “I’m alright, and I’ll catch you at dinner. In the meantime, take care of yourself and try not to get in any trouble.”

“You got it,” the teen confirms, dipping his head in a nod, before he hangs up the phone. He turns to look at Allison, doing his very best not to fume. “I am going to kill Sc-“ The truck slams into the SUV hard enough to send the vehicle rolling, but Stiles doesn’t find out about that until much, much later, because he gets knocked out on impact.

He comes to some undetermined amount of time later, lying limp and sweaty on the wooden floor of some small room. The entire right side of his body _aches_ , but particularly his head, and especially when he pushes himself upright; he lists a little, almost falls over, and raises a hand to grip his head. Blood flakes under his fingers, makes his hair clump together, leaves his hand a little sticky when he pulls it away to look. It’s gross, but it doesn’t make his gut churn the way it had, say, a year ago. “Jesus,” he wheezes, thinking some Tylenol would be great right about now. When he swings his head around to take in the room—and that _hurts_ —he finally spots Allison in the corner, completely still, and his heart just about jumps out of his chest.

“Ally!” he shouts hoarsely, diving across the room and gritting his teeth for the pain that kicks up in the process. “Allison, c’mon,” he begs, rolling her over onto her back, and thanking every god out there when she groans. She’s got cuts here and there along her face (probably from broken glass), and there’s a purple-black bruise blooming a little near her temple, but when she opens her eyes, Stiles swears he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

(The relief practically takes his breath away.)

Allison, though, has definitely seen better, and she squints at Stiles through her own pain, frankly a little horrified. “Damn, Stiles, they really did a number on you,” she croaks, reaching up to clasp the ball of his right shoulder. He makes a wounded noise, dropping the shoulder to get it out of her grip, and she takes the hint, letting go. “Sorry,” she mumbles, as her friend does his best to help her sit up.

“S’okay,” he says, helping her lean against the wall. “So who are _they_?”

“Hunters,” Allison tells him easily, as she leans back and closes her eyes with a sigh. Her collar slides down as she tilts her head back, and now he can see the burns that blacken the skin just below her collarbone. Tasers—check. “They hit us with the truck at an empty intersection and pulled you first. At first I thought—shit, Stiles, I thought you were _dead_. There was so much blood…” Her face crumples a bit, but she quickly pulls herself together. “I climbed out of the car, tried to get you away from them, but there were too many of them, and one of got me with a taser.”

He nods at her and asks, “Weapons?”

Allison tilts her head back. “No,” she says as she unzips her boots and tugs open the flap. “They got everything when they searched me earlier.” There’s a cluster of wolfsbane darts tucked carefully into the little fold of leather attached to the inseam of the boot. “How ‘bout you?”

“You know I don’t carry any weapons on me,” he insists, though he reaches down to pat his belt buckle lightly with his left hand.

“Damn,” the ex-hunter grumbles. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Stiles can’t help but nod in agreement, and then he immediately regrets it.

Almost like they were summoned—or maybe as though they’d been _listening in_ —the lock on the door clicks, and the hinges squeal as it lurches open. The duo scramble to stand up just as two men enter; the first carries a shotgun, and the second has a revolver strapped to his belt, with his hands folded together behind his back. Boss, Stiles and Allison think at once, and they share a look, as if they both know it. Although neither of them has been given the _gift_ of telepathy since early fall, when they’d first seen each other again since the end of the last school year. That had been a very interesting week.

“Well, it’s good to see you two are up and awake again.” It’s the boss who’s talking, and he steps closer to the pair, watching Stiles fit himself in front of Allison as they back in the corner of the little room. He sandwiches her between himself and the wall, and her hands come up to grip his shirt and his left shoulder, careful of where she touches him. “We were worried, you know? Didn’t think you were gonna make it—you were bleeding so much,” the man chides, shaking his head. “But I’m glad you’re doing better.” He pats Stiles’s right shoulder, and it takes everything in the teen not to just fold in on himself and cry at the pain that blossoms there. The guy looks _pleased_ and maybe a little impressed.

He turns around to head out of the room, making a point to show them his back. “My name is Noah, and I’ll be your—well, let’s go with _jailor_. My name is Noah, and I’ll be your jailor for the evening. So, please, feel free to let me know if you need anything.”

“Now that you mention it,” Stiles wheezes, “a bit of mood music would _really_ be appreciated. I mean, we might as well get in a little lip action while we’ve got the privacy, am I right?” Allison frowns behind him, wondering just what the hell he’s up to.

The smile Noah gives him is one part amusement and three parts condescension. “Yes, well, about that _privacy_.” He motions to someone in the hall, and two men come in dragging a body, which they basically just dump in the middle of the room.

It’s—

“Oh my God,” Allison hisses as realization strikes her. Stiles can’t even see the guys face right now, because everything’s going blurry, but part of him kind of hopes it’s Scott, because this is all totally his fault. “ _Ethan_ ,” she hisses at him, and he jolts.

“Your little pack mate was keeping an eye on you when we retrieved you. He attacked us—needless to say, he was unsuccessful in _helping_ ,” Noah says as he turns to go.

“No, stop!” Stiles says, loud and desperate. “You can’t leave us in here with him, he’s our enemy!”

The look that the hunter gives them is skeptical. “I’m surprised,” he says, “we’ve never encountered humans in a pack before, but I honestly didn’t expect you to give up your pack mates this easily.”

“No, you idiot,” Allison snaps at him. “We’re not part of either of the packs.” Which is true, actually. She had been keeping away from all things werewolf since Gerard’s death, and Stiles had stepped away from Derek and Scott, tired of watching them fight even though they were supposed to be working with each other. In fact, Stiles and Allison had been spending more time with each other than they had with any werewolf in Beacon Hills. It was—a refreshing change, even if they both miss Scott.

(Even if Stiles misses Derek and Isaac and Boyd, and their weekly bro-time.

Even if he _really_ misses his Catwoman.)

“What the lady is trying to say is that we’re hunters, dumbass,” Stiles pipes up helpfully.

“Really?” Noah asks doubtfully, but his uneasiness is clear now.

“You didn’t even check the SUV, did you?” the young man inquires.

“What does that matter?”

Allison shakes her head and says, “There were guns in the back, wolfsbane bullets, our bows—maps of the packs’ hide-outs, tactical information. Are you really this stupid?” Her voice is high now, spiteful and reprimanding, like she is when one of the hunters under her command screws up.

Stiles would be kind of turned on right now if it wasn’t so against the bro-code.

“You better watch your mouth, little girl,” Noah tells her ominously, and it makes Stiles tense and press Allison even closer to the wall, but this time she pushes him forward, effortlessly, because of his injuries. She folds under him carefully, so carefully, and comes to stand in front of him. She says, “That’s Ms. Argent to you, _Noah_.”

 _That_ gives the guy pause, predictably.

“You’re lying,” he insists.

“Why don’t you go find out,” the former hunter suggests coolly, and Noah and his lackey hurry out of the room like their asses are on fire, although the door does get locked behind them, unfortunately.

Stiles takes the opportunity to fall back against the corner and slump until he’s settled on the floor. “They aren’t exactly great when it comes to their research, are they?” he asks tiredly.

Allison turns to kneel in front of him and pats his knee. “You know how these guys can be sometimes,” she tells him, and he quirks an eyebrow at the term “these guys,” but doesn’t say anything, knowing that someone is probably keeping an ear on them. She asks him, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just got hit by a truck—oh wait!” he jokes weakly, but it falls kind of flat. “Don’t worry,” he adds, because she is clearly worrying. “I’ll be fine.” Which, really, is a giant lie. He has at least a mild concussion, he’s lost a lot of blood, and if they have to run, he’s much more likely to be crawling. Allison knows that, obviously, if the look on her face is any indication. “Aw, don’t gimme that look, Green Arrow.”

“We’re getting out of here together, Stiles. I don’t care if I have to drag you out, I’m not leaving you behind,” Allison says fiercely, lips pursed. She’s aware that she might be _projecting_ a little, but either way she means what she says. There’s no way she’s going to leave Stiles to rot in some hunter’s home base.

The other teen huffs at her and shifts a little, wincing a bit before he settles. “In the meantime, what are we going to do about contestant number 3?” He nods over to Ethan, who seems to be stirring a little.

Allison just pats her boot as the only werewolf in the room groans and rolls over onto his back. The guy brings a hand up to his face, rubs at his forehead and his eyes. There’s something wrong with him; she can see it from here, even though Stiles can’t. Ethan’s skin is pallid and sweaty, but covered in goosebumps. He’s _sick_ , she thinks, poisoned even, she realizes. Which makes sense, when she considers things, because the hunters probably pumped him full of wolfsbane to take him down. “You’re dying,” she says quietly, but he obviously hears it very clearly, because his head jerks up so that he can look at her, mouth opening in a flash of white fangs. Allison tries hard not to feel super smug about it, she really does, because she doesn’t want to be the kind of person that takes pleasure in someone else’s death, werewolf or no. It’s just, Ethan has spent the last seven or so months playing games with her friends, games that include _torture_ , so she can’t really help the twisted feeling of happiness that tilts her mouth up at the corners.

But Ethan just pants and looks at her, then looks at Stiles, who is just as pale and uncharacteristically still in his corner, and he flashes a smirk of his own. “I’m not the only one,” he tells her simply, eyes locked onto Beacon Hills’ very own version of Veronica Mars.

Allison moves to stand and Stiles’ hand comes down on her shoulder, squeezing. She grits her teeth and folds her hand over his, clutching at his fingers to reassure herself that he’s still there.

Ethan says, “Looks like my pack’s about to have one less problem. After all, what will Team Human do without their strategists?” He pushes himself up into a sitting position and shuffles over to the wall to lean on it. Now they can both at least make out the wound in his right shoulder—he really doesn’t have long. “With Stiles dead at the hands of _hunters_ , it’s only a matter of time before Aiden tempts Lydia over to our side, and Danny’s certainly not going to stay when he finds out that the very same hunters killed his boyfriend. And he will find out—Aiden will tell him what’s really going on in this god-awful town—he’ll tell him about your little supernatural infestation, and before you know it, he’ll be begging Deucalion to turn him.” He watches the two humans think over the scenario, expressions tight and weary. “If you really think that my death is going to weaken the pack, you’re wrong. If anything, it’ll just piss them off.” Things are quiet, and Ethan feels pretty assured that he’s won this particular argument.

It’s Stiles who laughs at him, even though it’s clearly painful to do so. He wheezes, touches his ribs, and grins. “Dude, you are…a real piece of work, you know that? You really think you’re fooling anyone, with this act?” He shakes his head, makes himself dizzy. “They told us what you did—that you tried to save us. I’m not stupid enough to think it’s because you like us or anything like that, I know it was about Danny. Because you’re in love with him.”

Ethan holds himself stiffly, glares at the other boy like it’s an Olympic fucking sport. “A simple ploy to get on his good side. You honestly think I care about that pathetic kid? Of course you do,” he says, making a sympathetic face at the two of them. “That’s the problem with you humans; you put too much emotional investment into everything. That’s why you’ve been losing to us _so badly_ this past year. See, unlike your little group, my pack doesn’t let our emotions get in the way of our goals. I guess it’s more of a werewolf thing.” He smiles at them, and it’s a mean little thing. “Erica, for instance, didn’t let her emotions keep her from taking what she wanted, and now look at her. One of our most skilled fighters.”

Stiles’s heart thumps painfully in his chest, angrily pumping out an uneven beat, and he grinds his teeth.

“Oooooh,” Ethan mocks, “have I struck a nerve?”

“Does it matter?” Allison asks him. “You’ve got half a day, tops, before you’re nothing but another body for them to bury. Might as well get as much gloating in as possible now, because this is probably the last chance you’re going to get for it.”

The werewolf smirks, toothy and wide and a little bloody. He says, “Gloating isn’t really my thing.” That’s the last thing he says for a while. After that, the three of them settle into an uneasy silence, with Allison and Stiles curled up together, and Ethan slumped against the far wall. He closes his eyes after a while, falls asleep maybe, he’s clearly still alive judging by the way his chest rises and falls, though his breath hitches. “You’re not dying,” Allison says firmly at one point, but it’s obvious that she’s unsure. “Right?” She’s tucked against his left side, his arm looped around her shoulders, and he gives her a squeeze.

“No way, are you kidding? I hurt—like, a lot—but some bruises and a concussion aren’t going to kill me, Al.” But even as he says it, he feels exhausted, worn out and more tired than he’s ever been. There’s something unnatural about it. Stiles isn’t about to tell Allison that, though. Discouraging her is not a thing he’s going to do when they’re in the middle of enemy territory, secretly plotting their escape. Instead he says, “I am going to be finer than fine as soon as we get the hell out of here and back home. Then you and I can settle in at home and watch that b-rated movie marathon on syfy just like I’d planned.”

Allison’s shoulders slump, like she’s a little more relaxed, even though she’s still just as worried as she has been all afternoon. She huffs at him, “That was your plan for the day? Not,” going over to Derek’s to help some more, she doesn’t say, even though that’s what she thinks. Because Stiles has spent a lot of time with Derek and his pack since their first meeting after five months without seeing each other. “Hey, man,” Stiles had said, after he and she and Derek had saved Scott from some kidnapping and torture via Alphas. “I missed you,” he’d admitted, and Allison had climbed into her car and driven away. She’d honestly thought that that was it; that Stiles would jump back into Scott or Derek’s pack and she’d be back down to Beacon Hill’s P.I.: Party of One. But he’d called her the next day and demanded she get down to Jo’s A.S.A.P. Apparently there had been a break in at Madam Trelly’s place, and she’d specifically asked for their help.

“Not some time down at the station? Deputy O’Connor mentioned something about you having lunch down at the station,” she continues, spouting out the lie like it’s her _job_.

Stiles tilts his head from side to side as he leans it back against the wall of the room, apparently too lazy to bother lifting his head. “I needed a break, you know? And I definitely don’t wanna go now that I’ve got the chance to spend the rest of my day with a beautiful girl like you,” he tells her with a tired smile. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re no Lydia Martin.”

Allison laughs at him. “But I’m not exactly Peter Hale?”

“Oh my God!” Stiles laughs, too. “No, you are _definitely_ not Peter,” he promises. “He’s _way_ too pretty for you.”

“Stiles!” she shrieks, and reaches out to slug him in the arm without thinking. She immediately apologizes, “I’m so sorry!” but she’s still laughing as she speaks, and Stiles is still laughing, too, even as he groans. It takes a few minutes, but eventually they settle down and Allison scoots closer to him, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“No, but seriously, I would really appreciate it if you didn’t mention this conversation to Peter,” Stiles says after a moment, and Allison snorts.

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” she assures, “your secret’s safe with me.”

Back in town, Samuel Stilinski has pretty much had enough of this entire damn day by the time he pulls up to his last call of the evening. It’s something simple, Delores had told him over the radio; a hit and run. The ambulance is already at the scene, along with Deputies Zimmer and Gill, but there isn’t a victim in sight. No one is being treated or questioned, and the Sheriff heads straight for his officers. “What’s going on?” he asks, sufficiently confused. There are some familiar faces milling around, looking worried and morbidly curious.

Zimmer runs a hand through his blonde hair, scratching at the back, while Gill shrugs, a frown tugging her mouth down. “Well sir, we’re not exactly sure,” she admits. “Ms. Fenton over there called in about a hit and run, but we can’t seem to find the driver or passenger. And it’s…well, sir, it’s pretty bad. It doesn’t look like the driver was too banged up, but there’s a lot of blood on the passenger side.”

Sam sighs and scrubs a hand over his face and turns to look at the SUV; there are several in town, a few of them that are all the same shade of maroon, but it isn’t until his eyes skate over the back window that he realizes exactly who it belongs to. “ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, tugging out his cell as he stares at the little sparkling wolf sticker that was stuck to the window.

“It’s a hunting joke,” Stiles had told him the night he’d bought it from one of those stupid sticker machines at the grocery store.

“There aren’t any wolves in California, Stiles,” he’d told his son, who had laughed all the way home.

Chris picks up on the third ring, “Sam?”

Sam sighs, rubs at his face again. “Chris…”

“Please tell me this is a social call,” the other man begs. “I really don’t want to have to go down to the station to pick Allison up because she and Stiles snuck into Ellen’s again to ask one of the regulars about a missing garden gnome.” He sounds fondly exasperated, which just makes it that much harder to tell him what’s going on.

Even though the drive usually takes fifteen minutes, Chris makes it there in seven, and Sam has to catch him at the blockade, haul him back before he can get to the SUV and see all the blood sitting inside.

“Hospital,” Chris says, once he’s calmed down a little. “Did you call the hospital?”

“She’s not there,” Deputy Gill confirms, phone in hand. “No one by the name of Allison Argent has been admitted, same goes for Jane Does.”

The man runs his hands through his hair; once, twice, then clenches it between his fingers. He says, “And Stiles?” and the two officers freeze where they stand.

“What about Stiles?” Sam says sharply, thoughts jumping to the last time he spoke with his son, just under two hours ago. For the first time in years, Scott had apparently caught the little delinquent off guard with an April Fools joke.

“Allison left a couple of hours ago to pick Stiles up from home. She told me that she was taking him to see you,” Chris explains, sounding angry and frustrated.

Sam pulls his cell phone from his pocket and thinks about all that blood in the passenger seat of Allison’s car when his call goes straight to Stiles’s voicemail.

_“Hey! You’ve reached my voicemail; if I’m not answering my phone, I’ve probably been abducted by aliens and right now, chances are that I’m slow dancing with—“_

The Sheriff hangs up before the recorded message can finish and calls again. Then he calls again, and again, even though Stiles isn’t picking up, and finally he calls the house. His son doesn’t pick up there, either. Just another voicemail, this one all machine. He grips the cell phone so tight that it creaks, and resists the very tempting urge to chuck it across the street. Next to him, Chris is on his own cell phone, looking tense and talking through clenched teeth.

“Swear to God,” he’s saying, “if you’re keeping something from me…”

“Sheriff!” Deputy Zimmer hollers at him from over by the blockade, where he stands with Hollis Fenton, and Sam stalks over. “Ms. Fenton has something to tell you,” the deputy says a little nervously.

Hollis speaks up right away; she says, “Stiles was there, Sam. He was with Allison, and there’s something else we need to talk about—there’s something else you need to know.”

Back at Noah’s base, the man in charge re-enters the room with a smile on his face that makes Allison nervous. She digs her fingers into Stiles’s arm where she’s clutching at it, and even though it must hurt, he doesn’t make a sound.

“Well, Ms. Argent, looks like your story checks out. You two are free to go,” he says, gesturing one of his goons in to help her get Stiles on his feet and out the door. It’s not easy going; her friend still groans and stumbles, nearly topples over a table that some other members of Noah’s group are using for a poker tournament. Surprisingly, they don’t snap at him, instead helping to right him, brushing cashew crumbs off his sleeve. “Alright?” says the girl, completely oblivious to the fact that their captive is slipping something into his pocket. Probably a weapon of some kind, if Allison had to guess at it. It doesn’t really matter either way, because she’s not about to bring it up in front of them. The last thing she’s wants to do is start a fight when they’re this far away from any form of transportation.

And something about this whole situation is fishy. It definitely would have taken Noah more time to corroborate their story with her father, and her dad definitely would have wanted to come pick them up himself. Judging by the look on her friend’s face, he agrees. So a few extra weapons at hand aren’t exactly a bad thing.

“I’m okay, really,” Stiles insists to the pair who help him straighten, but the way he curls in on himself just slightly gives him away, and Allison clenches her teeth, feeling anxious.

“Why don’t we head out to the car?” Noah suggests, leading the way. Outside it is dark, just sun falling behind the tree line in the west.

There’s a little Honda CRV waiting for them, and Allison watches the other hunters help Stiles into the seat behind the driver before she gets into the passenger seat.

The man who helped her get Stiles out of the house climbs in behind her.

We’re going to die, she thinks, and what is really frightening, beyond the idea that she and Stiles aren’t going to make it out of this, is the fact that the thought of dying doesn’t even scare her anymore.

The driver rolls down her window as Noah approaches the car. He says, “It was nice to meet you, Ms. Argent,” and Allison smiles at him nice and easy, like everything is alright. “It was nice to meet you, too, Noah,” she tells him, and they shake hands. He waves at them as they pull away from the house and smiles like he’s already won.

The driver takes them in the opposite direction of town—along a hiking trail that heads up hill.

Stiles huffs, licks his lips and leans back in his seat, pulling on his seat belt. Allison looks back at the sound of the click, tense and wary, and he smiles at her. “Better safe than sorry,” he warns, tugging the taser that he’d nabbed from the table earlier out of the pocket of his hoodie. He keeps it close to his body, though, so that only Allison can see it, and he watches her tug on her seat belt. “Right,” she agrees. “Wouldn’t want to risk an accident,” she jokes, smiling at the driver, who chuckles at her.

Reaching across his right side with his left to reach the hunter sitting next to him isn’t easy, but Stiles puts his all into it, jamming the taser against exposed skin hard enough to bruise when he pulls the trigger. The other man makes a wounded noise, and it attracts his partner’s attention. The hunter pulls out his gun in record time, but Allison catches his wrist before he can aim at her, and slams it roughly into the steering wheel, so that he loses his grip on the revolver. “Hold on!” Stiles shouts in warning, and both Allison and her opponent turn just in time to see the tree before the front end of the car slams into it.

“Okay?” Stiles groans into the silence, still in pain from the last accident, but otherwise relatively okay. He looks to Allison, who wheezes a little and rubs at her chest. She says, “I’m good,” though at this point, “good” is a pretty comparative term at this point.

Stiles is out of the car first, much to their mutual surprise, because Allison is having a hard time climbing out from between the dash and her seat. He doesn’t bother searching Unconscious Hunter 1 of 2 for a cell phone; mainly because he knows that any phone he finds is basically guaranteed to be fried, thanks to his taser. Instead he hauls the driver out of his seat and searches him for a phone, which he has. Allison is just stepping up next to him when he hits the call button. She asks, “Who are you calling?” and the other teen shushes her, waves his hand in her direction in a _shut up_ motion.

“Dad, it’s Stiles. I know you’re kind of caught up with the whole April Fool’s Day thing, but some crazy out-of-town hunters just kidnapped Ally and I from town and tried drive us out along Bear Trail and put us down like old-yeller. So, if you could maybe gimme a call back or come pick us up, I would really appreciate it,” he tells his dad’s answering machine, before hanging up. He passes the cell to Allison and says, “Wanna try your dad?” She nods at him and starts punching in numbers. But they both freeze as the sound of tires on gravel reaches them.

Stiles tosses the taser to Allison, while he dives into the front seat to find the revolver. She tugs him back, behind some trees and bushes once he finds what he’s looking for, and they crouch low as a car pulls up to the scene of the accident. Noah steps out of the car with his other two henchmen—or hench _persons_ Allison would correct, while Lydia calls him a sexist pig—and he goes to check on the guy Stiles electrocuted while the girl checks the driver’s pulse. The last member of their little party is scoping the area.

“Cat?” Noah says from the car. “How’s Tanner?”

“Alive,” Cat informs him. “But he’s going to have one hell of a headache when he wakes up. How ‘bout Max?”

“Drooling,” Noah says, face scrunching up, “and snoring a bit. He’s going to be just fine.” He hauls his lackey out of the car, tossed him over his shoulder in the fireman’s carry and lugged him over to the SUV they’d arrived in. He calls out to the third member of their trio, asking where he’s gotten off to, and it’s only then that detectives Stilinski and Argent realize that they have also lost sight of him.

A gun cocks behind them, and they both whip around to look down the shotgun barrel pointed in their direction. Or, more accurately, Allison’s direction. “Over here!” the hunter hollers, catching the rest of his (conscious) teammate’s attention, without looking away from Allison, who stares back at him with a particularly unimpressed expression. A couple more clicks sound in the clearing as the other two whip out their weapons. “Any last words?” asks the hunter—Carver—standing over them.

“Several,” Stiles replies, just before he grabs the barrel of the gun and shoves it up and away from Allison’s face. It burns in the cradle of his hand as it goes off in Cat and Noah’s direction, sending them scattering. Carver cusses at him, pulls at his weapon, and Stiles shoves it forward, so that the butt of the gun collides neatly with the other man’s nose. The teen catches the gun as the hunter lets go to clutch at his nose, while Allison throws her foot out; it connects with the side of the man’s knee, and a sharp snap echoes in the light air of the forest, followed up by a hoarse cry, as his leg gives out under him.

Stiles tosses the shotgun to Allison, who catches it easily and they both start running, shots following them deeper into the woods. “They’re fucking teenagers!” Carver groans angrily.

The bark of a tree cracks and splinters to their right as a bullet hits it, and Stiles shouts, “Weave!”

“What?” Allison barks back, sharp and confused.

“I mean—well, zig-zag!” he explains, and then tries to demonstrate, but he’s tired, so he kind of half-asses it. “Didn’t your dad teach you…?” he stops a ways in, out of breath.

“No!” Allison says, sounding kind of mad about it. “We’re hunters; werewolves don’t carry guns, Stiles!”

“I’m…not sure…I really believe that,” Stiles wheezes at her. He drags her to the right, and they both leap over a log, and then Allison pants out, “What do you mean?”

He yanks her to the right and just ahead of them a bullet cracks into a boulder, sending cracks spiderwebbing out. “Maybe we should talk about this later,” she says reasonably, and they take off again, further into the woods.

They come to a fork in their path and stop. Noah is a ways behind now, because Allison has lived in Beacon Hills for two years now, trains here daily, and Stiles has lived here for all of his life, checks for bodies here daily. They know the forest much better than some out-of-town hunters.

Stiles says, “We should split up.”

Stiles says, “I’ll go this way and you go that way.”

Allison says, “No.”

She loops her friend’s arm around her shoulder and then, instead of picking a path, she verges off to the left, away from the trail and deeper into the forest. She huffs and goes, “I already told you, Stiles. You and I are getting out of here together.” She’s not letting Stiles run off in another direction so that he can lag behind and let Noah catch up with him. “You’re not sacrificing yourself to save me,” she tells him vehemently, and hauls him forward, picking up speed. Almost viciously, she adds, “You shouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself to save _anyone_.” His hand grasps at the ball of her shoulder, squeezing, and it makes Allison wonder when the last time it was that someone told Stiles about how important he is. “Now hurry up.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grumbles, and they stumble on.

It’s about fifteen minutes later when they finally realize that Noah isn’t following them anymore. It’s a nice development, not being chased by a guy with a gun, but it doesn’t mean they stop walking. Instead, they keep going—for one mile, maybe two. It’s hard to differentiate when they’re run down like this, harder still when it’s pitch black outside, not even the moon to keep them company. Stiles needs a break at that point, and he perches on a rock, breath shallow, one shoulder drooping much, much lower than the other. He says, “You should try to call your dad now, while we’re on break,” and Allison eagerly pulls the phone out of her jacket pocket, dumping the taser and the shotgun so that she can focus all of her attention on the little device. It boots up without a problem, all the little icons popping up when she thumbs at the lock. She dials her dad’s number, cups both hands over the phone as she listens to it ring once, and then her dad picks up, voice gruff and stressed.

“Dad!” she shouts, laughing and happy to hear him.

“Al--?” It’s all he gets out before a tone rings loudly in her ear. _We’re sorry_ , an automated voice reports, _this phone is no longer in working service._

Allison lets out a short laugh, this one a little hysterical, and she pulls the cell away from her ear to stare down at it.

“Ally?” Stiles says quietly, and she looks up at him, and then she looks away, back down at the phone. The sound it makes when it cracks against the trunk of the nearest tree isn’t as satisfying as she thought it would be, so she picks up the shotgun and throws that, too, and then the taser, and she can hear Stiles talking to her, but it’s _not enough_. She almost hits him when he grabs her, almost breaks his nose like he broke Carver’s, but he grabs her hands, steadies her. “Allison,” he says loudly, and she slumps against him.

She’s crying; she knows she’s crying, and she shaking, and she’s being loud about all of it. At this point, though, she can’t help it. “He was right there,” she sobs. “He said ‘hello’ and he said my name, but it disconnected, Stiles.”

He pulls her down to sit on a rock and presses up next to her, so their huddled together, and very gradually, she calms down. “The hunters probably did it on purpose,” he explains as she tries to get her breathing under control. “They probably waited until they knew you were using the phone to cut the call; give a little hope, then take it away. It’s a tactic,” he tries to say, and she cuts him off.

“I know,” and she admits it with a grimace.

Gerard had taught her all about it.

She says, “I’m sorry,” after a minute, offering a hesitant smile, but Stiles just shakes his head at her. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Al. We—we’ve been through a lot, today, or yesterday, or whatever. It’s pretty understandable, going crazy for a minute. Who wouldn’t?”

“You,” Allison says right away, and her hands clench like she wants to reach up and stuff the words right back in her mouth.

“What?” Stiles gives her a funny look, a wary look. “Believe me, Robin Hood, I’m plenty crazy, hostage situation or no.”

“Some hunters kidnap you and you don’t even glare; some werewolves push you around and you just get even; your one true love turns you down and you turn into her personal little support system; an alpha threatens you and you turn around and help him. Where’s your anger, Stiles?” she demands. “Because I’ve been waiting and all I’m getting is an extra dose of snark. You’re the one who should be throwing phones, not me. In fact, you should be throwing phones _at me_!” she says, getting up to pace the clearing.

Stiles just watches her, expression dumbfounded. “What are you talking about?”

“Like you don’t know!” she shouts angrily, pointing at him. “Why don’t you just get it over with? Put me out of my misery!”

“You want the truth?” he asks, putting on his bitch face.

Her eyes tear up, but she nods at him, resolute.

“Fine!” he yells. “I really disapprove of those pumps you bought at Macy’s the other day! Orange is not your colour!”

Allison stares at him, startled.

“There!” he shouts. “I said it!”

They descend into a ringing silence that only breaks at the sound of a hooting owl, but when Allison opens her mouth to say something, the sound of a twig snapping has them freezing. Then they both move at once; Stiles going for the shotgun, while his friend picks up the taser, and then they’re off again.

“We’re talking about this later,” Stiles hisses at Allison as they stumble off into the trees, because apparently there’s a lot they need to talk about.

There aren’t any more impromptu discussions as they go. They don’t know for sure that the hunters are back on their trail, but neither of them want to risk it, and the talk from before hadn’t been doing them any favors either way.

Even though they’re both tired and hurting, they push on well into the night, until the sun starts to stretch thin fingers of light between the trees, colouring the morning gray and blue through the layer of clouds above them.

They don’t even notice Deucalion at first; he is so still and quiet against the background of the forest. The pair of them come up short, jerking to a stop when they spot him. Stiles sags a little against Allison, before straightening again. He says, “We’ll take that break any time now,” just before Kali yanks him away from her.

“Stiles!” she shouts, cocking the revolver and raising it to point at the shewolf. Aidan bats it out of her hand with a swipe of his claws, grabs her by the lapels of her jacket, and tosses her into the nearest tree. He advances on her as she slides down the trunk, hauls her back to her feet with a hand around her throat, claws digging into the delicate skin there.

“Stop!” Stiles shouts hoarsely. “Please, please!” he begs, thrashing in Kali’s grip. She grips the back of his neck, shakes him until he stills. He is frozen, eyes wide as he watches Allison’s blood bead under the wolf’s nails. “Okay,” he says slowly, as Ennis steps into their line of view, watching them closely. “Okay, why don’t we all calm down and talk this out like rational adults?”

Deucalion looks amused. “Yes,” he agrees, circling Aidan and Allison for a moment, before moving towards Stiles and Kali. “Let’s talk about what you’ve been getting up to the past couple of days, shall we? I’m not even going to ask about how Derek’s doing, we can get to that another time. I’m more interested in your visit with those hunters. Not friends of yours, by the looks of it,” he says, and then reaches out to pat the teen’s cheek. Stiles grunts, tries to lean away, cringes, while Kali holds him still.

“Enough playing, Deucalion!” Aidan says suddenly, fingers flexing against Allison’s throat. “Where is my brother? Tell me now!”

The two humans share a glance.

Allison’s eyes say no, but her mouth—well, actually her mouth also says no. In fact, she’s mouthing it at him pretty furiously.

“Subtle,” Aidan tells them sarcastically.

Stiles takes a little initiative and says, “He’s a few miles back, holed up in their secret base. If you’re quick, you can make it to him before he dies. If you’re _lucky_ , you can get there in time to give him the wolfsbane that’s in those shotgun shells. Then, instead of turning up at the station in a body bag, he can walk back into town with the rest of you.” He gestures to the shotgun, and Kali releases him, takes a step back to avoid Allison, who Aidan shoves into him. They stumble, pitch over sideways and hit the ground hard. Twin 1 of 2 is off for Noah’s evil lair, Ennis going with him, but Deucalion and Kali stick behind, the latter standing close enough that her claws graze his arm, dig into the fabric of his hoodie. She pulls a hand back for the killing blow, but Deucalion says, “Wait,” and she holds off.

“It’s time to put your toys away, Deucalion. We have work to do,” the shewolf advises, but the other Alpha shakes his head.

“If it wasn’t for them, we’d never know where Ethan got off to,” the man reminds her, and then he addresses the duo. “I don’t like owing anyone. You saved Ethan today, so in return, we’re going to spare you.” Kali rolls her eyes and stalks after their companions. “But don’t get too relaxed Mr. Stilinski; Ms. Argent. I still have some questions for you, and I fully intend to come and collect.”

“By the way,” he adds, pausing beside them. “Erica says ‘hi’.”

Allison and Stiles lie there long after Deucalion makes his rather dramatic exit.

“The least he could have done was knock us out and dump us in the middle of the nearest road,” Allison says tiredly as she leans against her friend, which is a painful position for both of them, really.

“Not mad?”

“About you giving up Ethan?” she asks. “We’re alive, that’s what counts.”

They stay there for a few more minutes before Allison finally starts to coax Stiles into a sitting up position. “C’mon,” she tells him. “It’s not that much further.”

“Just leave me here to die!” Stiles moans pitifully, which earns him a bruising pinch to his side. “You’re not funny,” his bff says irritably.

They’re much slower going this time, because they’ve both pretty much had it with this little adventure. But it’s worth it. The pain is bad and they’re exhausted, but it’s worth it.

Because at 6.30 A.M. they stumble out onto a part of the road that is only a few miles away from town, and at 6.45, their English teacher, Mrs. Holtz, pulls over to give them a ride back into town.

“Everyone has been really worried about you,” she tells them on the way to the hospital. “My sister, Lea, called me this morning to tell me all about it—apparently they put together a search party and they’re heading into the woods right now,” she adds as she pulls her phone out of her center console. The car swerves a little as she looks away from the road and Allison grabs at the wheel, startled. Stiles laughs at her from the back, but his chuckle turns into a wheezing cough. It would figure that they live through a kidnapping and two car accidents just to be killed by an absent-minded school teacher. “Hang on,” Mrs. H tells them, pressing on the speed-dial to call someone. “Yeah, hi Melissa. I’m just calling to let you know to expect me at the hospital in a few minutes. I found Mr. Stilinski and Ms. Argent a bit out of town, and they’re pretty banged up. See you soon,” she says, and then hangs up on Ms. McCall’s frantic voice.

Melissa isn’t any calmer when they actually get to the hospital. “Madre de dios!” she says, horrified, when she gets her first look at them as they stumble into the lobby. “We’ve been so worried about you,” she tells them, ushering the pair through the double doors and to the nearest room when they refuse to get in the stupid wheel chairs.

“Yeah,” Allison says, kind of amused. “Mrs. Holtz told us all about it.”

Melissa gets a pinched look on her face, like maybe she wants to shank their English teacher. “And where is _Mrs. Holtz_?” she asks, sounding a little violent about it. Stiles hisses when her fingers dig into his arms, and she pats the little crescents in his skin, not really looking particularly sorry about it.

“She’s not here; headed off as soon as we got out of the car, almost before we got out of the car—I didn’t even get to close the door behind me,” the teen admits as they turn the corner and step into one of the rooms with a bed inside. It’s small, cramped like the cave, but Stiles and Allison sit down on the bed together, pressed up together like they don’t even need the room. “I’m honestly a little concerned for that woman’s sanity,” Stiles slurs, after a minute of thinking about it. His friend grabs onto him worriedly, and he grips her back weakly. “We’re safe now,” he says, exhausted.

“Yeah,” Allison agrees, sounding like it’s only just hitting her now that they’re not stumbling around the woods anymore. “Yeah, we are.”

The check up is thorough, kind of invasive, and when they’re finally out of their clothes and wearing those ridiculous gowns that don’t cover much of anything, Allison is honestly alarmed to look at herself in the mirror without all the layers. She’s cut up, bruised and in pain, even after they give her the Vicodin. Stiles is in even worse condition; almost as white as the hospital gown that he’s wearing, and his entire right side is a canvas of purple and black smudges. They’re set up in the same room, with two beds because Melissa had requested it, but he climbs under the covers next to her, pressing his left side up against her right. The feeling of his shoulder beneath her cheek is the last thing she remembers before she checks out.

Fitting with the day’s theme, Stiles isn’t far behind.

Neither of their parents are particularly quiet when they come barging in about half an hour later. Chris is generally relieved, Sam is pretty horrified when he gets a good look at his son, who is on morphine, and under no risk of waking up unless there is an 8.5 earth quake.

“Are you okay?” her dad asks, gripping her shoulders tight with his shaking hands, as the Sheriff moves around the bed to look at his son. Sam is a smart man; he doesn’t reach out to touch any part of his son that other people have today or yesterday. He carefully presses fingers to the left of Stiles’ face, lightly runs his hand over the younger man’s hair.

Allison watches him for a second, a habit that will probably stick with her for a while, a nervous obsession to keep an eye on one of her few remaining friends in Beacon Hills. She eventually looks to the side, though, to her own father, and brings her hands up to grip his elbows, and then pull him in for a hug. “Dad,” she chokes, eyes burning. She closes them against the threat of tears, as everything that has happened in the past 24 hours finally catches up with her.

“It’s okay,” her dad insists, even though his words come out as a croak. He promises, “Everything’s going to be fine,” and Allison feels like that shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is. But for the first time in seven months, the former huntress feels safe.

Back at Noah’s secret hide-out, Ennis stands with Deucalion, absently listening as Ethan shouts away the pain from his healing bullet wounds. He looks to the other Alpha, eyebrow rising, and asks, “Anything?”

The other man shakes his head, taking a look out into the forest. “They’re gone, and there isn’t a trace of them left—not even a scent to go off of. My guess is that they used some sort of herb to cover it up.”

Kali frowns from her spot on the porch stairs, picking dirt out from beneath her claws. She says, “They’re out there.”

She says, “There’s no way they’re leaving town—their pride won’t let them.”

Ennis shrugs, dips his head in something like agreement. “If they’re in town, we’ll find them. After all, we know exactly where they’ll go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Got any questions? Bored? Wanna talk about something? Look me up on Tumblr: [ lizardrobot](http://lizardrobot.tumblr.com/)


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